The Married Man
by conchepcion
Summary: St Bart's costume party extravaganza proved to be a bigger event than Molly Hooper anticipated, though she remembers very little the day after. It's her mysterious lover's marital status that bothers her the most, and soon Molly finds herself having to solve his identity. Surprisingly enough there's more than one suspect.
1. Clues

**A/N: **Thank you AussieMaelstrom for beta.

This story will be in _**five**_** parts.**

**Warning:** _smutty flashbacks will occur. _**  
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I am gifting this to OccasionallyCreative **because.**

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><p><strong>Clues<strong>

"Take off your mask," she slurred, hands on his cheeks, as she fingered the soft black fabric that covered the upper part of his face. Only his eyes were visible, his upper features disguised, perhaps it was the dark cloth that made his eyes seem dangerous, almost forbidden. Everything about him was an enigma wrapped in a tight-fitting black costume. The dark cape hung around his broad shoulders, the dark shirt tight yet loose, revealing sparse hairs on a pale chest, and the dark trousers sat just _right. _

She barely restrained her sigh, licking her lips silently instead, hoping he'd comply with her wish. They'd gotten so far after all, but he was still the silent figure. He'd barely said a full sentence, and the handful of words he'd spoken throughout the night had been murmured into her ear, his hands constantly ghosting on the lower part of her back, his voice husky and deep. Something about his voice, something about it gave her shivers and wants and needs.

She bit her lip, her eyes settling on his mouth, as she grinned at the silly drawn-on black moustache that was almost rubbed off by how much they'd kissed. Instead of answering he drew her closer, pressing her up against him more fiercely, tightening his hold on the back of her dress. "Take it off," she said meeting his gaze, her lips automatically parting, her mind wandering to other possibilities.

His eyes twinkled as he pressed a gloved finger against his lips, her eyes paying close attention to all of his movements, until his mouth met hers with undeniable heat. It was a kiss unlike any other, demanding underneath the surface, so much want hidden away and her mouth opened up to his easily, her own hands finding purchase in his darkness, smiling against his lips.

It was perhaps not an answer but she did not mind it one bit, her mind reeling, when he repeated the phrase he'd said earlier, as she'd led the way to her building. Though before it had been in a fake-accent, but this time it was spoken with a laugh.

"_I'm a married man."_

* * *

><p><em>Her body arched underneath his well-sculpted form. Their hands pressed together, as he stole another kiss from her swollen lips muffling her loud moans. Thrust after thrust she met him unafraid in return, her brown eyes drenched in lust, swept away by how he filled every inch of her…"Oh my-,"<em>

"God-," particles of hair and dust seemed to have accumulated on her tongue. It was like an indistinct fuzzy coat layered the interior of her mouth. _Ugh._ She obviously had not brushed her teeth the night before.

This minor inconvenience was nothing to the volume of how her head throbbed. Though she knew it was impossible; it felt like her brain would leak out any second, her liver aching soundly in the background seeming insulted by last night's escapades.

Slowly she sat up in her bed, a palm resting against her forehead as she surveyed the war-zone that was her bedroom. Her white glass-lamp from IKEA was in miniscule pieces on the floor, resembling eggshells; the bed sheets were in a crumpled heap by her door –_ and_ – her costume was ripped.

It did not resemble something Bo-Peep would wear anymore, but it wasn't tremendously accurate the night before either. "Oh God – oh _God_," she groaned, looking worse for wear herself.

Her hair was a tousled mess, dark smudges were smeared underneath her eyes and she was wearing a dark sort-of nightshirt. It wasn't hers, but it was soft, and she was glad to have it on, especially since it became clear no knickers or brassiere was under it.

She looked like she'd been burgled, though considering the tremendous ache between her thighs; another event had taken place _– a man._ Blinking against the light pressing on her eyes from the bright window, she began to wobble out of the bed only to feel a cold edge of steel by her fingertips, which made her halt, tumbling onto the bed again. She picked up the object, and proceeded to blink at a pair of handcuffs. "_Oh_."

"_Please," she cried, frantic for him to enter her, instead of teasing her mercifully, her cunt sopping wet, while his cock stroked the outside of the tender flesh making her clench at air. _

"_Please – what?" he growled into her ear, biting at the lobe, as she tried to explain, her body wriggling desperately for more than just friction. _

Sighing she took a longer sip of her tea, relishing the bitter flavour and trying to think of where her cat Toby was probably hiding (it was a way to distract herself). He was probably holed up in her guest bedroom, which was where he usually hid whenever she'd had Tom over back when she was engaged. _Tom._ "Oh my-," she began shaking her head, only to find it rebelling against the activity.

He'd been there – at the party –_ yes_ – he'd been at the party. Why she was hung-over became a bit clearer to her all of a sudden, even if everything was still foggy. But they were all right, weren't they? Certainly not good enough for this to happen exactly, but _amiable_, half-friends, the sort of people who could congratulate each other on their respective Facebook walls if either had a birthday (though only one smiley-face of course, more than that would look that they were trying too hard).

Molly drummed her fingers on the cup, glancing about with tired brown eyes at her surroundings. Pillows were strewn on the floor with a mysterious wet stain on her favourite bright pink pillow, and besides the pile of cushions there was a used condom. It was just lying there innocently, blatantly saying what her body seemed to recall physically.

_Ugh._

She had marks,_ thorough_ marks, practically branded by her '_lover'_ – the mystery man. There were small bruises on and above her breasts, some scattered generously around her neck, even a couple on her thighs, inside her thighs, even on her knee (why, how, why). Studying bruises almost daily, she knew these kinds of marks properly, though she hardly expected to find herself sprinkled with them. No, that had never happened before.

Everything about her felt tender, though clearly satisfied, even if her head was not coping with the current climate. She'd not been properly hung-over in years, constantly keeping herself within her own personal limit, but she knew she'd had some good reason to partake in a bucket load of drink the night before. _Tom. _

It just seemed wrong, but she had a niggling sensation in the back of her head. She was angry with him, though she couldn't remember 'why' she was cross, which was disconcerting.

Taking a sip of her tea she tried clearing her scratchy throat, as she'd clearly been screaming a lot the night before. A small smile found its way on her face, dropping all of a sudden when she remembered one thing rather vividly – _"I'm a married man."_

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><p><em>Sweet and salty, thick and throbbing in her mouth, her saliva practically dripping on his cock, wanting him to be inside of her, pounding into her flesh like he was doing her mouth. He gripped at her hair, while she hummed, letting him feel the vibrations on his cock. <em>

"So?" said Meena on the other end of the line, annoyance dripping off every syllable. "So you shagged someone? What's the problem? Hasn't it been ages?"

Molly clenched her eyes shut, tugging her bathrobe closer around her, as if to shield any onlookers from the sight of the myriad of love bites she'd procured during the night – "He was married," she hissed, the guilt overtaking her.

Married men were off-limits to her, they were mythical creatures from another world – these good men who she never _ever _would in a sober state ever consider. But last night apparently, common decency disappeared with enough strawberry daiquiris. She'd told Meena she hadn't wanted to go to St Bart's _costume party extravaganza,_ only grudgingly complying when she was handed a costume – Bo-Peep. It had been a pale pink ridiculous monstrosity with enough bows to satisfy her needs, at least according to Meena (_"Look it's pink and pretty – like you."_)And now it was merrily a rag, a fact she didn't feel tempted to tell her friend of quite yet, silently transferring her some money for the costume instead.

"And what do you want me to tell you?" said Meena. "Bad – _bad_ – Molly? Give you a slap on the wrist or something?" Molly frowned deeply. She'd hoped Meena would be cross or disappointed, especially since Meena recently had gotten engaged and was three months pregnant, but apparently some things would never change. Whatever Molly did, Meena wouldn't judge since Molly had never judged her when it came to her past silliness.

"Would help," she said feeling rather unsure. "Of course I might have heard wrong." Mishearingthe word married seemed unlikely, very much so, though she did wonder whom the man was? Was he an absolute stranger or someone she'd met before or was he someone she worked with daily?

She couldn't remember what he looked like, or what he was wearing, but he had certainly been intriguing. Of course she remembered the most important part, the one part that made her feel guilty, as if that was her lot in life.

It wasn't her fault that some _married _man had succumbed to such a thing anyway, since she was not the other woman in this scenario. Obviously since the man had practically fled her flat, he too was most likely utterly guilt-ridden by the incident, and probably off worshipping his wife, whomever she was.

Meena laughed. "You might have heard wrong? My God – Molly – how much _did _you have to drink last night?"

She remembered having a couple of glasses, and that's when her memory glazed over into a frantic thick fog of mystery. It was like one of those thrillers she watched on the telly occasionally (or often) where the lead character had lost their memory and would have to begin piecing together every little thing. Her hung-over did not sound like a mystery exactly, more embarrassing.

"A bit," she said carefully, hand placed on her hip, as she strode through the sitting room, aware of the watchful green eyes of her cat Toby who'd finally made an appearance. "Um – possibly a lot."

There was a slight pause, before Meena broke out in a fresh bout of laughter. "If it hadn't been for my bladder - I might have bloody witnessed this!"

"So you don't have any idea who it could be?" said Molly who pressed the receiver of her landline against her ear, biting on a nail nervously.

"You spoke to a lot of people last night – if there's anyone who should know it's _you_ –," Meena paused slightly. "…You did talk to Tom though from what I remember, but I left at that point."

Molly grimaced. "I did?"

"I don't think you made a mess of it, he looked pretty pleased about himself," said Meena after a beat, sounding thoughtful. "Have you checked your mobile, though? Might be some clues there."

"This isn't a mystery, Meena," said Molly slowly, eyeing the offending phone on her coffee table, hating the electronic device with a passion.

"If it isn't - what harm can there be in checking your mobile? Everyone checks their mobile – twitter – facebook – there might be a clue – or wait – pictures – oh my god, that's right! There's got to be some."

"I'm not going through the photos."

"Might not even be one of you there," said Meena in small voice.

"You're going through the photo's, aren't you?" said Molly stopping in her stride.

"No…"

"Meena!"

"What? It's the first thing that pops up on my wall. Nothing embarrassing so far, but then again there's like –_ oh-," _her laughter makes Molly's stomach take a plunge, a deep searing one.

"What? What is it?"

"No, just Miriam snogging Peter Beldam – who she apparently hates, obviously not by the amount of tongue down his throat – but still none of you, or well, I've seen you in the back mostly, pretty low profile really – you seemed to be standing in dark corners a lot."

"Thank God," said Molly relieved.

"There's a nice one of you and John Watson though – and he's apparently got his hand on your – _wow_ – breast."

"What?" squeaked Molly.

"Kidding! - Now – go check your mobile– you kept away from the cameras, so we know you didn't start taking off your kit at least."

"Umm- maybe I-,"

"You expecting the married man to text you? If he isn't there now then you don't need to worry-,"

"But what if he's a boss or something-,"

"Well, there's the added bonus that you don't remember who he is."

"Meena - it's not – it's not good – I'll go around wondering-,"

"It'll pass! I promise! Just remember that you had amazing sex, and some man out there is a proper bastard – you did have amazing sex, right?"

She properly laughed this time. "Oh, you're probably right...doesn't really make me feel better though."

"So check your phone, and feel better about yourself – come on – it'll be like ripping off a Band-Aid!"

"Okay," said Molly with a smile picking up her phone, though her smile slipped off, immediately replaced with a gape. Several text messages littered her inbox, and several of them from various men she knew.

Not good, definitely not good.

"What's wrong?" said Meena at her silence, while Molly began to open several of the texts.

_I think we need to talk about last night_ – Tom

Oh God.

She took a deep breath, trying not to jump too quickly to conclusions, checking the other from GregLestrade _–_

_I need you to give me the handcuffs back ;)_

And now she was really, _really_ confused, even more so by John Watson's two texts –

_We really need to talk._

_Call me immediately!_

"Feel better?" said Meena after a while.

"No."


	2. Tom

**A/N: **Thank you AussieMaelstrom for being super-fast with looking over my errors. Lovely. Thank you to those who've reviewed, favourited, followed! It's always a delight to see - thank you very much! I'm going to take a 'break' over the weekend, because I've got a work-meeting, studies to attend and loads of work to be done.

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><p><strong>Tom<strong>

_He pushed inside her from behind with one quick thrust, though every thrust that followed was slow and torturous. She could barely stand, soon holding onto the doors of the fridge, almost fisting the edges. His thumb caressed her bud all of a sudden; making her spread her legs as her body trembled. _

_It was then he began to move, her legs wobbling from the impact. _

Before she'd ever met Tom she'd heard a great deal about him through her friends who were bothering her repeatedly with how _nice, _how sweet, how fit he was, and at the time she was trying to cope from Sherlock's would-be-death. It hadn't been easy, since she had to pretend she was sad, when she was glad that the man was alive and well somewhere (despite the occasional fear he might be in danger).

But she hadn't exactly felt ready to enter into anything with anyone; surprisingly enough someone shared the same feeling – _Tom._ She hadn't known it was Tom at the time, it had been a large party, plenty of people abound, and she'd wandered over to the kitchen when she found him.

"_I'd – umm - avoid that bottle-," he said grimacing when she was about to pour herself a glass of red. _

"_What's wrong with it?" she said crinkling her nose, eyeing him nervously. _

"_This bloke sort of spat in it - for no good reason – I just – I forgot to pour it out really," he said with a shrug. "Got distracted, sorry."_

"_No, it's – fine – thanks for warning me."_

"_Couldn't let you drink that, not very nice, umm, so -,"_

"_Is this your party?" she said after a second. _

"_Doesn't seem like it, does it? Host hiding out in the kitchen when he's supposed to be talking with his guests."_

"_No, a friend of mine – he does that too."_

"_Oh, oh right – nice to know I'm not the only weirdo around here – where is this friend of yours then?"_

"_He's dead," said Molly casually, smacking her eyes shut when she understood that her words sounded too light. "Oh God – I'm sorry – I mean – well he is dead, but I mean - I'm not-,"_

"_Right, I am the only one in the world, then," said Tom with a small chuckle not seeming bothered with her comparing him to a dead man. _

In the end they'd both despaired that their friends were trying to fix them up with some stranger, and the second they knew each other's name, Molly knew she'd found someone. They were nice together, despite the tiny quibbles, but she liked him.

When he'd asked her to marry him she'd been surprised really, thinking it was too soon, too fast, but then realized maybe it was a good thing. It wasn't until she realised she'd never managed to set a date for their wedding, making up excuse after excuse that Molly knew she'd only ever _liked _him ("You deserve someone better, someone who does more than like you," she'd told him when she'd given him the ring back).

Remarkably against all odds they'd maintained a sort-of friendship, not exactly one where they had coffee together, but one where they wouldn't run in the other direction if they accidentally met (sharing an awkward conversation instead). There was still awkwardness, would always be, since there had been enough of familiarity between them – she'd met his family - met his friends, and seen his life, but Tom had never really seen hers.

"_I don't have much of a life,"_ she'd told him, but she understood the second Sherlock had resurrected that she'd put that part of her on pause. Suddenly it was as if everything was going in high-speed again, and she knew that it had a lot to do with the man she'd faked the post-mortem for. And now here she was hung-over, about to have a coffee with Tom since; he _deserved that at least._

His exact words of course, and she dreaded to think that they'd... Especially since she'd heard he'd sort-of gotten with Lucy who worked at St Bart's also. A nightmare scenario where she shagged her ex-fiancé and he thought there was something there again, though it just – it hadn't seemed like Tom. Sex with Tom was very much like scented candles, showy and nice, but they didn't add much in the end, except the occasional fire hazard.

It was definitely not the kind where she'd have people asking if a murder had taken place in her flat. He didn't fit the profile of practically defiling her flat, or her for that matter, but then again, alcohol did strange things to people. There was no way she hadn't given as good as she got, and her body was proof, so her _lover_ would bear marks…

The thought clung to her when the door to the café sprang open, and familiar brown curls appeared, the army-coloured jacket he wore with its collar up, as if it would shield the _massive shiner_ on his eye, blue and fresh on his face.

'_Oh my God' _she thought.

"Molly-," he said with a cheery wave, walking with a jaunty step towards the counter, while her eyes followed his steps towards the register to order a large coffee, besides some other large sugary bun.

She'd…_she'd_…once she'd voiced to Meena how worried she'd been about what she'd done to Tom at Mary and John's wedding, having stabbed the man with a fork because he'd irritated her, though Meena had pointed out – "It was the wine, didn't you have like buckets? You rang me up at the end of the evening, remember?"

She was one of those women – violent – yet – Tom seemed to be bearing her temper with normality, sitting opposite her, while she opened and shut her mouth repeatedly. "What – what happened?" she finally said barely holding herself together.

"Last night happened," he said with raised brows, soon shrugging in his chair, while she sat more upright in hers, staring unblinkingly at him.

"Oh – you mean…you _mean_-?" she began not managing to even say the words out loud. "We – umm – _we_…"

"Yeah, umm – I'm sorry about how I left. I just…I thought it was for the best, and I really wondered if you meant what you said last night?" he looked truly troubled and anxious. "I just had to ask, since I know that you might take it back, and that's…I suppose I'll manage in the end if you don't agree, but I just…" Tom cleared his throat soundly, putting on a toothy grin, trying to look at ease, but his gaze was unnerved at best.

The shiner did not help either.

Blood left her face immediately, her skin prickling, her insides churning soundly about – she had – they had – _oh god_. She didn't need Meena telling her, didn't need to hear Sherlock or anyone coming in with a poorly disguised comment about his looks. No, she knew this was a bad idea from the get-go. It would ruin their barely sustainable _friendship_.

How could this have happened?

The ache in her head reminded her, and now she'd have to be cradling that while explaining to Tom how last night she'd pretty much lost it. His hopeful face made her feel like walking out silently and never looking back, but he certainly deserved more. There would never be any kind of casual friendship, and their mutual friends would absolutely loathe her.

But before she'd even gotten the chance to ruminate on how she'd explain how she'd forgotten almost everything except the little bits that made her lower parts twinge – "Do you really think it's a good idea to ask Lucy to marry me?" he said and her stomach stopped jolting about manically, air being pushed out of her mouth in a rush.

"What?" she said gaping at him

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><p><em>His costume rattled against his skin, every time someone came crashing into his side. Truth be told, the helmet was soaking his head with sweat. Maybe dressing up as Rory Pond in Roman gear had been a terrible idea, but it had been Lucy's suggestion. <em>

_She was ginger after all, and really wanted to wear a police uniform with a short skirt. He wasn't one to argue against that idea. When he'd finally managed to find his place by the bar, holding up two fingers for two pints, he was unsurprised to find someone in a poufy pink skirt besides him. _

_Molly barely registered his presence, bouncing on her heels; a long pink straw in her mouth, as he received his order, before he thought it might be a good moment to have 'the talk'. There were few chances after all. He'd not have trouble spotting her in that costume, the skirt being pink and full and the glittery make-up surrounding her eyes. "Oh – hello-," she began, surprising him with a hug when he caught her eye, though her attentions were soon on her drink. _

"_You've – you've got a theme going on I see," he said with a nod, baffled by the sudden hug, blushing slightly as drank some of his beer. _

_Molly didn't seem to mind him, waving a hand at her friend Meena in the distance who gave him a nod in return before she walked through the crowd of people dancing vigorously. "Soooo," he said with pursed lips, quite aware that if there was a time and a place he could bring the topic up, it was now. She was in a good mood, or well, the drink assured him she was, still bouncing on her feet, seeming to be looking for someone. "Molly?"_

"_Mhm?" she said not even turning to look at him. _

"_You've heard of me and Lucy right?"_

"_Yeah," she said distractingly, standing on the tip of her toes, peering out at the crowd, her straw still in place in her mouth. _

"_Well – I -," he really wanted to put his hands in his pockets to stop them fidgeting, the drinks sloshing about instead – "I'mgoingtoaskhertomarryme!" _

"_Wha-," said Molly, her head snapping towards him in surprise. "What did you say?"_

"_I said – marry me – I mean I know it's a bit quick, and mental, especially after everything but I think-," and then he caught sight of someone who looked rather upset. _

"And that's when Lucy sort of-," said Tom with a sigh, eyes cast down on the coffee table.

"She didn't – _punch_ – you?" she said with her hand on her mouth in shock.

"No, no - I sprinted after her and managed to kind of fall flat on my face – the bloody costume really," Tom laughed. "She thought that I was asking _you _again, which would be really – really – pointless. I caught up with her in the end thanks to that friend of yours."

"Friend?" said Molly torn between pity and curiosity.

"Yeah the man in black? That chap dressed like Zorro? He hung around you the rest of the night - you two seemed pretty snug," said Tom chuckling slightly, though she noticed that little twinge of awkwardness.

The man had been dressed like Zorro? It explained the black shirt she'd woken up with in the morning – _the man in black._ She didn't recall anyone she knew wandering about in that costume though, but then again, she hadn't really spoken to anyone pre-drinks. Wandering about in the sheepherder costume hadn't really made her keen for conversation with anyone, except the bartender, and he was wearing a tight black t-shirt (at least that she remembered).

"Oh, oh right," she said with a brief nod, biting on her lip. "…You don't have any idea who that was, do you?" she tried not to look desperate, since she didn't really want to know…but she _had_ to know.

Tom blinked at her. "No? You didn't know him?"

"No," she said slowly. "So – you must have fallen quite hard, then?" she said eager to change the subject while Tom looked at her like she'd lost it a bit, clearly she'd been really chummy with Zorro.

"Hard - but it was worth it in the end – and you said – it was alright that I asked-," he said gesturing with his hands, looking extra nervous because of it, and she knew that he was worried of what she thought of him.

"Tom-," she said tentatively. "You don't need my permission at all - marry her - don't think about me."

He released a relieved breath. "Brilliant, thanks - I - that's – that's all I wanted to hear really – sorry that I felt like I needed to ask – I just – I needed to know I wasn't being mental."

The instant she and Tom bid their farewells she took hold of her phone and began scanning her Facebook. Sure enough there were photos of her in dark corners, and on closer inspection there was a figure sitting beside her in the dark, but she only saw the back of his head, yet at his fingertips she glimpsed_ silver_ – the pair of handcuffs. Clearly - the detective inspector was the next man on her list. _Oh God._


	3. Greg

**A/N: **Thank you head-babe _AussieMaelstrom_ for being beta. Sorry for sudden disappearance on my part.

I got lost in scary movies. Not literally.

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><p><strong>Greg<strong>

_The sound of metal clashed against the headboard while she rode him, leaning down to capture his lips that she then moaned against. She could hear him struggling against the binds, his hips thrusting up to meet her, and the ability to hold back was impossible. _

'_Zorro',_ the only history she had with that figure was her watching the film with Antonio Banderas years ago - marvelling over how fit he was. But apparently her lover had dressed up like him. Considering she couldn't for the life of her remember what Greg was wearing, the evidence pointed to him...sort of. He didn't fit the mark at all – he wasn't '_married_' – he was divorced now. Though technically Tom didn't sound like someone who'd call himself married either, so, this could just turn into a wild goose chase.

She hoped for the latter, clinging to the belief that all of these men had just felt an unexpected urge to text her. Since Tom had explained that '_you owe me that' _was a way to make her show up – _"If you'd been paying proper attention last night - I wouldn't have needed to shout after all - and wouldn't have-," he said laughing pointing at his face, though his amused expression soon dropped. "No…that was really my fault."_

Molly had already felt tremendously brave just texting Greg, though unlike Tom he wasn't having a day off, nor could he nip out of the Scotland Yard's offices without some repercussions. This all meant she'd have to turn up there, her head still not firmly on her shoulders, but her appearance at least decent. No one was really looking at her when she entered the offices; all of them too busy on phones, or chattering to colleagues and brewing coffee. She was just another face, though some gave her a nod or two, but that was because she had security clearance. They knew her from the field after all, but Molly couldn't shove down the rising paranoia. Her thoughts jumping from the ordinary – _oh that's Peter_ – to – _why did he just wink at me?_

**It's not Tom? That's wonderful! – Meena**

_No, it's not. _

She did like Greg, though his reputation preceded him before she'd ever laid eyes on the man, unlike Sherlock who hadn't become a regular at Bart's until he'd realized there was someone who was willing to put up with him. "_You're qualified enough to understand my needs."_ At the time she thought there was some hidden subtext there, but she realized shortly that there wasn't. Greg, however, oh Greg. He was the silver fox, or so the nurses liked to say, as he flashed them a pearly white smile, throwing out flirty words every now and then.

She never quite fancied him, not that she didn't see why others did, but when she'd first met him he'd been happily married. But Molly knew it really had something to do with the fact that he'd thought she was a man (wrapped in blue, wearing goggles probably didn't help). Despite her better judgement, she did have an ego. And throughout the years Greg continued flirting with her, always when either of them was unavailable. When she'd been engaged he'd had the decency to ask if she and Tom were _serious_, and then they'd been meeting regularly enough for him to remember that she had a boyfriend. She started to see why he needed help from Sherlock after all, that or he had selective memory.

Knocking tentatively on the door as she clutched her purse, readying the handcuffs in her bag. "Come in-," said Greg from the inside, and she pushed the door open catching sight of Sally Donovan standing behind the desk and Greg in his chair. The pair of them looked a bit worse for wear, though mostly tired, as Sally gave her a faint smile. "Oh, Molly! Do you have our handcuffs, then?" said Greg who looked up, lifting a cup to his lips with the large words 'Boss' on them.

Her attempt at a smile dropped, as she blanched at the words 'our'.

_What did he mean our?_

"Yeah, we'll be needing those back now," said Sally with a hand on her hip, her small smile turning into a large grin. Both of them had a really good rapport, especially since Sally could stomach more than most of the others in her field, but nothing like – _this._

Molly stared at the pair of them wide-eyed for a few seconds, and they seemed to return the look briefly. "Umm – I – I only have one," she said fishing out the cuffs from her purse, her hands trembling slightly. There was no way; no way she'd been involved in an orgy – _was there?_

Well, her flat did look like hell.

"I'll take the one you've got," said Sally with a slight laugh walking out from behind the desk, soon holding out her palm. Molly coloured slightly before she dropped the offending item in Sally's hand (she'd cleaned it beforehand of course). "He – can get his own," she said thrusting her thumb at Greg before she left with a wink at Molly. "Got plenty around here after all."

Molly whirled around slowly to stare at Greg when the door to his office slammed shut after Sally's exit. "You all right?" he said eyebrows in his hair. "Nothing's wrong is it?"

He didn't look like he'd scrambled out of her flat, his white shirt seemed pressed, and his marine blue dress jacket was crisp and fine. There was nothing about him that seemed at all agitated by last night's escapades, but she still had to ask.

"No – I -," she began taking a breath. "Did we – have we-,"

Greg stared, his mouth opening a little. "Wow, you really were pissed last night…" he said chuckling a tiny bit, while her insides stopped doing vigorous flips. "We didn't – wait – your bloke – it was consensual right?" The detective inspector looked genuinely worried, and she was quite touched by that.

She immediately cleared her throat, her cheeks turning slightly pink. "Umm…it was." At least _that_ she recalled with perfect clarity, though Greg proceeded to look at her expectantly, almost a tiny bit smug. Molly had hoped he'd continue the conversation, as he was regularly the one who prodded when it came to the most sensitive topics, almost resembling Sherlock in his scale of sensitivity at times. She suspected it had something to do with the territory.

"But why did I have your handcuffs?" she said clearing her throat again, her eyebrows hunched together in an attempt to look serious. It didn't feel right to ask if he knew whom she'd shagged outright, though she had a suspicion he might not be the man to ask about that.

He gave her a look. "I would think that's obvious."

* * *

><p><em>Greg blinked in surprise over the woman who approached him, murmuring to himself when she caught hold of his arm. Fine - he hadn't been creative dressing up as a copper, but so hadn't anyone else in his team that were invited for that matter. <em>

_There was nothing wrong with being unoriginal. _

_At least he was somewhat in costume, though he was still surprised to see Molly Hooper appear dressed like -"Are you looking for your sheep then?" he said grinning, taking one large swallow of the bottle in his free hand. _

"_Grreeg," she slurred. _

"_Ooh – you're pissed!" he said sobering up immediately at the sight. _

_He was used to Molly being the one lone figure who'd remember every sodding detail every time he chanced upon her in a party, and for once he had the upper hand. _

"_I need – I need your handcuffs!" she said in a rather child-like voice, her hand sliding across his arm in what he assumed was her attempt at being extra convincing. _

"_Why?" he said with his eyebrows raised. _

"_Sally!" Molly said quickly, clearly giving up on him, before she appeared by the sergeant's side – the woman spluttering into her drink in surprise. _

_Sally had definitely never seen her like 'this', throwing him a look of surprise, before she shrugged and handed Molly a pair of handcuffs without much fuss. _

"_You can't – you can't just give those to her-," he shouted against the music, internally cringing over Cher's 'I Believe' blasting over the speakers. _

"_Yeah I can!" mouthed Sally who then pointed at some bloke dressed in black, who appeared by Molly's side. The pair soon disappeared, and it was when they'd left that Greg was aware he was a missing his own pair of handcuffs._

* * *

><p>"Oh – <em>oh <em>right-," she said nodding, her cheeks flaming nonetheless. She'd actually gone up to Greg and asked for handcuffs, though clearly Sally was the one who'd figured out _why. _

It wasn't Greg at least, but that meant…

"Why do you ask?" said Greg who leaned back in his chair, looking the very imagery of serious detective inspector, which was when she liked him best really, though right now she didn't like that serious gaze of his.

"Just curious, it's a bit fuzzy-," she said with the most casual air she could, but she knew the tone sounded like she'd been involved in a crime, especially with the way Greg eyed her.

"I'm not surprised – you were well pissed – not that everyone wasn't – even your ex-fiancé managed to have a fall," he said finally, relieving her of some potentially embarrassing questions, since she'd had enough.

"Yeah, I heard you had a video from the party?" she said having briefly gone through her Facebook earlier, and able to ask since he wasn't the man in black.

Greg grinned fishing out his mobile phone, and Molly rushed forward to have a look. "Caught only some of the action of course-," he said.

It was a blurry shot - dark, loads of people clamouring, the camera jolting about – she could see Tom landing with a bang on top of one of the tables, and she cringed in shock over it – catching only sight of the hem of a dark costume – before the video ended.

She'd seen his _shoes_, of course she wouldn't see more than that, but at least she knew what he was wearing. Not that she was about to visit every shop in the country to find out what he was wearing exactly – she'd woken up in a part of his costume after all.

He must have worn the rest of it home to his wife.

"Your friend helped him up though - good of him really."

"That's – that's nice-," she said with a sigh.

"I suppose," said Greg giving her look. "You're sure you're alright?"

"Yeah," she said with a nod. "Umm…I've got to go."

She sped out of the office after that, busying through before Sally could catch her for a chat - obviously keen to know what had happened last night - as Molly could only barely remember. There were just flashes of moments, and they weren't fleshed out properly. It had been years since she'd been like this, as she could feel the anxiety within her rise.

She wasn't about to panic.

No, she was not... but she was.

_It's not Greg. _

_**Brilliant!**_

_There's only one man left. _

_**Oh shit. **_

The last man whom texted her – the actual married man – John Watson.


	4. John

**A/N: **Thank you AussieMaelstrom for beta, though I did some heavy tinkering, but that's because I'm reading 'Sharp Objects' by Gillian Flynn. Good book man. Such a good book.

* * *

><p><strong>John<strong>

_His hands ghosted over her breasts, fingertips slowly encircling the nipples, making them almost too tender as his hot wet tongue twisted around them. Her gasps were audible and loud throughout the room. Ignoring her back that smarted due to the floor she focused on the fingers that slid into her warmth, brushing carefully against her already swollen bud that he'd teased so mercifully. _

_She almost bucked against his hand, restraining herself, as she could feel his fingers bending inside her, his smile one of clear enjoyment over how wet she was. He seemed intent on making her scream, out of lust, out of frustration, as his fingers pulled back, his teeth biting lightly into her breast, and her tense body pushed against air wantonly. Any moment she would break, her resolve barely keeping up, but she enjoyed the game. _

_The second he slid into her, she knew she'd lost._

John Watson. He wasn't eyed in the same way at Bart's like Greg, but he'd been in the military after all. She had found him cute, seeming a bit reserved at first but rather cheeky in the end. He was also a doctor and he was downright charming, with a bottom both the female and male staff had marvelled over. Because John was nice Sherlock had become accessible to the masses, the staff enduring the consulting detective's escapades more, as they all had glimpses into his psyche due to John's witty blog.

But John wasn't _that_ nice, and she wouldn't…ever.

She wasn't that sort of person. Then again, she'd never imagined she'd willingly enter any kind of dalliance with a married man. "This isn't Hollyoaks! Don't jump to conclusions before you've heard all the facts-," Meena had snapped on the phone in an attempt at being reassuring, though Molly had felt more cowed than anything, wanting to stay underneath her duvet until she was physically dragged to work next week… or month. After all - if it was indeed Mr Watson - then did she really need to show up at his home to ask? Even if he wasn't answering her texts, or calling him landed her right in his voice mail - that didn't mean it was a subject they needed to discuss immediately, right? Instead Meena had reminded her of the one thing which she didn't want to think about. "Are you upset because it might be John or upset because this means Sherlock is properly off limits?"

"He was always…off limits," she said grudgingly, knowing the latter was a tiny bit _hypothetical._ You never shagged someone's best friend and got away with it. Not that _they_ were in a relationship, but she knew she wouldn't exactly be…Then again, she'd almost… with Jim – _oh_ – now was really not the time to hate herself _entirely._

"So you admit this might not even be the case and you might have shagged some sexy Zorro out there?"

The option did sound rather good compared to the problem she might be faced with, _might_ being the key word to focus on. "Let's be realistic… Could John pull off Zorro?" Meena added as an afterthought. It was a valid question; very valid in fact, which was why Molly dared go to the Watson's home with her chin held up high until she was right outside his front door.

But at the sight of the door she almost jumped off the stone steps, her hands trembling from holding the umbrella too long. She _was_ tired and it wasn't like there was an expiration date on this very conversation, but to her absolute horror the door opened revealing Mary who had her baby daughter clutched to her front.

"Hiya! I thought I saw you," said the woman with a bright smile, and Molly blinked against rainwater, suddenly reminded that this woman was an ex-assassin (John really needed to know _when _to shut his gob, Sherlock hadn't needed to tell her to keep it a secret though). "You're not here about John – are you?" said Mary who's brows were knitted together.

Her hand clamped tighter around the handle of her brolly, while she gazed up at Mary who bounced her daughter against her frame, the baby gurgling happily. "What do you mean?" she said carefully. "Why would I be here about John?" Lying had never _ever _been her strong suit, but she just wanted to make sure she wasn't talking about one thing and Mary about another. She'd had enough of _that_ for a long time now. This conversation wasn't suggestive anyway; the woman had a baby strapped against her. It was safe. There were no handcuffs.

"Didn't he disappear all of a sudden on you?" said Mary in one breath, while Molly found herself holding hers. "Let's get inside, it's too cold for Lucy right now and you must be shivering."

She stood longer than she needed outside gaping, the sound of rain pounding on her umbrella, before she tentatively walked inside the Watson's home.

_No._

Mary was obviously talking about something else, and she was being presumptuous. But walking inside to find the woman sweeping her baby into the cot in the sitting room smiling at her did make her a bit afraid. Not that Mary was scary. The first time she'd met Mary had been at Sherlock's, sipping on champagne together back when the woman had seemed ordinary. That was until Sherlock had become a gunshot victim and Mary was suddenly quizzing her about the man's boltholes. And Sherlock had always warned her never to lie if she was pressed about it, because she was a terrible liar. He'd also complained that Mary seemed to figure out his lies. She should just go home. She wasn't feeling well enough to have a conversation with the wife of the man she might have had sex with, and in general, she suspected adulteresses did not seek out the spouses of their lovers.

"Oh!" said Mary softly, slapping a hand against her cheek like she'd forgotten something, while Molly just stood dripping on the carpet, unsure of what to do, but she did begin to remove her coat and finally folded her umbrella together as well. "Mind going with me to the kitchen? You can fill me up on all about last night – John's only sent me a text about it really. Think he's a bit afraid of what I might think - don't know why really, since I haven't got any problem with it."

"Umm-," began Molly who'd finally set her things aside, as Mary begun walking off to the kitchen where objects like knives existed in varying sizes, which prompted utter desperation - " – I'm_ so_ sorry-," she blurted out, face red, mouth beating the confession out of her.

"Sorry?" said Mary who whirled around, eyebrows high on her forehead. "Why are you apologizing? It's not your fault. It's his for being so careless." She looked only mildly annoyed, and Molly didn't know how to tackle that. Normal wives threatened, and snapped, but perhaps her previous line of work made these kinds of things silly?

"But…don't you feel it's awkward?"

"No, it's Sherlock's brother after all."

"What?" she said gaping.

Zorro was Mycroft Holmes?

_No - wait - what?_

She had just started to open her mouth, to properly speak about the whole thing when the door to the house burst open and John Watson walked inside dressed in a soaked _sailor outfit_ looking like he'd eaten a whole lemon. "Never again!" he shouted, causing Lucy in her cot to cry out. He spoke more softly the next time as he shut the door, "Never bloody again – will I help – Mycroft – with anything!" He seemed to suddenly see her, his eyebrows drawn together. "You! Your bloody_ friend_!"

"Hmm?" she said feeling on the spot, despite the general elation that flew through her. Zorro was _still_ a mystery, and if she never found out who the married man was it would be a bit like Schrodinger's cat. _Could Zorro really be married if she never knew who he was?_

No, he could not.

"My…friend?" she said though she probably looked stupid, as a grin had popped up on her face due to the relief.

"Zorro," spat John with a grimace.

* * *

><p><em>He'd been ignoring the vibrations of his phone all night. It was his bloody right after all. Sherlock was being annoying. Mycroft was being annoying. Both the Holmes' brothers were having some tiff about something, and he really didn't want to be the third party. He was always sorting out things anyway. <em>

_They were adults! _

_Grown men who were entirely capable of – oh wow – John was enthralled by the sight of Molly Hooper (who resembled a multi-layered marzipan cake) practically straddling the lap of some stranger entirely in black with a mask to boot, quite the eye-watering contrast right there. 'Good for her' he thought, saluting the pair with his bottle, until he took a long, unrestrained sip of it. _

_John had no plan of staying very long, since Mary needed him at home, and he could hardly enjoy himself. He'd had the worst row imaginable with Sherlock who'd been absolutely stubborn about going, despite the hospital's efforts on making him the guest of honour. John suspected he needed more incentive than that, since he'd even turned down being knighted. _

_Twice. _

_It was when he spotted Anderson eyeing him in the distance that he knew he needed to get away. The man was nice, but he had a tendency to ask questions he really didn't want to be confronted with, especially since Anderson kept posting commentaries on his blog, which he often left unanswered. Quickly getting to his feet he saw that Molly had untangled herself from her stranger, and John decided to join the pair of them to evade Anderson. _

"_Hi -," he began with a smile, though from what he could see of Zorro he was frowning at him, while Molly smiled in return. _

"_Hiii," she said happily, giving him a hug, and soon pointing out his costume. "How'd this happen?" She was clearly delighted by the ensemble. _

"_Last minute," he said brushing that aside – "Are you going to introduce me then?"_

_Molly beamed even more at this, her eyes lighting up, as she opened her mouth – _

"Did I know who it was?" she said gasping.

"You said Zorro, rem-," John stared at her blankly, his cross expression turning rather surprised. "Wait – you don't know who that was?" he said looking utterly bewildered.

"No," she said as Mary looked at the pair of them equally lost, though somewhat eager to listen to their conversation, as she hadn't walked off.

"But – but – he knew who My-," said John who proceeded to groan. "He took my bloody phone, confiscated it – and made-,"

"Mycroft show up?" said Mary with a shrug, biting her lip in amusement. "How did that go then?" The married couple stared at each other for a few seconds – Mary with her hands on her hips, while Molly noticed that John's costume with its white trousers was _quite_ see-through. She averted her gaze and fixed her eyes on his face.

John gave Mary a look – "How do you think? I've just got home. I walked around in this costume all night and day. _This costume._ I ended up taking the tube, Mary. The tube. In this costume."

"_Aren't you John Watson?" hollered a man opposite him. Passengers laughed openly, while he sat with crossed arms, trying to understand why he hadn't just told everyone to bugger off. Mycroft didn't really need him for a case anyway. The man only wanted to know where Sherlock was for some reason, and hoped 'stealing' John away would make his younger brother show up, which he didn't. _

"_Aren't you?"_

_John glanced upwards and saw the laughing expression die away on the man's face. At least he had a solid glare despite the outfit, even if some of the men had ogled him a bit too much. _

"Don't see the problem," Mary quipped happily, as Molly hid away a laugh. John looked like he was about to protest, silently opening and closing his mouth. "Baby," his wife said as if that meant she had rights, and he snorted. When he stomped off however, she saluted his exit winking soundly – _"Goodbye – sailor!"_

John's groan was audible from the floor above.

"Your idea?" said Molly giggling.

"Yeah…though I thought_ I'd_ be the one who had fun with that costume – and not Mycroft, but you can't have everything," said Mary smiling evilly.

Molly just felt tremendously relaxed all of a sudden, even if Mary was eyeing her with interest. "Why are you really here then?"

She told her over several cups of tea. Mary kept quiet during most of it, laughing in all the right moments, though she looked thoughtful in the end. "Well - I can say one thing…John could _never_ pull off Zorro. Don't ever tell him that, but he's a bit too short for the cloak."

* * *

><p>"You should ask Sherlock. Mystery lover sounds like something he'd find out," Mary had told her confidently and she agreed. Sherlock was the only man able to find out <em>who <em>the married man was, despite her want to just camp out on her sofa and forget any of it happened.

The problem was of course the flat, as the clutter was rather tricky to ignore, and she had felt the scent of sex slam into her face upon entry. No, maybe he wasn't married, and _maybe _she'd have a lover upon discovering him again. Except in all honesty she wasn't really the one to have a lover, though clearly this man was worth it. But then again would she want to be with a man who'd run off?

She still didn't know how she'd breach the topic to Sherlock, since she knew it wasn't his area really. "_Oh, Sherlock, can you find out who my mystery shag is?" _She could hear him scoffing in her head, before hanging up on her demonstratively, though she knew he'd probably just awkwardly mutter something. He barely tolerated her saying the word 'sex' and her reminding him she had sex would escalate to the point where she wouldn't hear from him in weeks, probably. But the idea of asking him for help did amuse her, and she really needed a laugh.

Oh, she needed a laugh.

_**Are you busy? – M xx**_

So she sent him the text, throwing her mobile away, expecting the answer to come hours away, but it pinged in that very second. Maybe he was bored.

_No. _

_**Can we talk? **_

Inviting him over would help, though she didn't like the idea of him seeing her flat in its current state, but it was rife with clues at least.

_Certainly. _

She eyed the condom with disgust.

Okay, maybe inviting him over was a bad idea.

_**Shall I come over? **_

_No need for that. _

He was obviously out already, and she could manage to clear that up after all. She was an adult. It was bodily fluids, and she worked with them daily. Also – she had some spare surgical gloves in her cupboard.

_**When will you be here then?**_

_Molly, I already am. _

She didn't know how long she stared at her phone, brows knitting and unknotting while she tried to understand that simple message. What did that even mean? Molly was just about to send a reply when it _hit_ her and she dropped her phone, springing off to the one room she'd not been in the whole day - her guest bedroom.

The door was slightly cracked open and she almost drew back in disbelief. _Oh God. _Pushing the door utterly open she spotted an unusual sight – on the bed – naked – handcuffed to the bedframe – Sherlock.

They stared at each other, brown eyes meeting those mysterious blue-green hues that narrowed at her like she was a criminal. She found her voice in the end, small and faltering, but it was present – "Zorro?"

He raised his brow almost mockingly.

"_Bo peep?"_ he bit out.


	5. Robin Hood

**A/N: **Thank you AussieMaelstrom for beta, and thank you everyone for reading this crack-drunklock!

* * *

><p><strong>Robin Hood<strong>

Her mind was working overtime, hyperaware of how his delectably dark tousled hair crept down his forehead, how there was this sheen of sweat on his body, of how there were impressionable and thoroughly distracting love bites marred on very specific spots on his body, his pale skin displaying them like clues. Every single little detail was examined like he was laid out before her on a slab, but she still could not find rhyme or reason in the fact that Sherlock Holmes was quite – no – not quite – he _was _naked in her guest bedroom and handcuffed to boot. Her eyes darted about, not able to sink into the shame of seeing _everything - _the little noticeable twitch in his neither region, his cock looking quite – "Lovely-," she clapped a hand over her mouth with a loud squeak.

She had said that out loud.

_Out loud. _

That wasn't supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen. Letting the hand drop she tried to recover – "I mean - - you didn't – did you do this to yourself?" He could be throwing her off from the bigger picture, though she could not see how his nudity wasn't a fully formed rather large picture already. "Why – why didn't you say – anything? I mean you've-," she let her hand with a wave convey the rest, before she put it on her waist. Understandably not wanting to directly point at any offending body part. She was keeping her eyes on him, not directly on anything of course, but it was like looking at the sun, even if you were trying to look at one spot, you'd find a glare of light thrown into your eyes (read: penis).

Not literally of course (that would be disturbing).

"Are you done?" he said making her meet his eyes with a grimace.

She had every right to look.

He'd let her wonder all day, let her suffer through so much, and he was there the entire bloody time.

"You're not supposed to-," she was pointing at him properly now, finger wobbling intently at his bits, and it took her a few seconds to let her arm drop awkwardly to her side again – "Why are you here?" Her voice was shrill, bordering on offensive and she already knew why. She did know and understand _why_. Molly certainly did not need him to wordlessly raise his brow up like he was sodding _Roger Moore_. Crossing her arms she glared at the handcuffs holding him in place, his wrists looking worryingly red, as he held his phone in his right hand. Blinking she tried making sense of it, "I only took one," she said eyeing his wrists. "Though they did…mention that Greg's was gone as well-,"

"I borrowed Lestrade's," he said in a bored voice. "_And_ one of his colleagues, dim-looking probably named something like David – easy victim - staring at your breasts at the time." He proceeded to look at the other handcuffed wrist, the one clasped around his phone.

Ignoring the quip about David,whoever _David_ was, she tried to understand. "How did you-," she said eyes on the phone. "- do that?"

"You wouldn't be surprised to find me limber - would you Molly?" he said with his mouth not twitching whatsoever, an inexplicable miracle, and an almost girlish giggle escaped her mouth out of sheer reflex, but she managed to push it down. She was, after all, still cross and hung-over (being in ones thirties made all of that crucially worse).

His remark just felt like a challenge, but she'd apparently lived up to some kind of challenge last night or he wouldn't be sporting those bruises. _How does one forget one shagged Sherlock Holmes?_ That was the real mystery. Besides how he'd gotten a hand on his phone or where the phone was in the first place. She could only imagine how he'd wriggled, arse pressed into the white sheets, muscles taut and straining as he arched, trying to get the phone along his hipbone, past his pelvis and to his toned stomach. The cold screen probably making him hiss through his teeth, the perspiration building up on his forehead – _shut it._ Thinking dirty thoughts while he was in the room naked wasn't a good idea, especially since she was now somehow jealous of a phone. She had to remind herself that she'd literally gotten her fill the night before, even if the phone had a memory capacity, unlike her, since she'd forgotten every single delightful thought. Admitting it to herself that it was the kind of sex that made one giggle a lot was embarrassing in a way, but she wasn't about to write it on her Facebook wall.

"You were kind enough to leave the phone on the bed… Unfortunately it took some time," he murmured, though he didn't look like she'd done him a kindness. His eyes were slits, annoyance dripping from them, which in retrospect was his every right. "I assumed after a while… you'd forgotten me." _Ouch. _

"You could have shouted - I would have gotten you out," she said shifting her weight from foot to foot, too jittery to stand still, as her mind screamed – _you shagged Sherlock – Sherlock – Sherlock – _a tiny bit of her cried out _success_. Another imagined the future attempts at avoiding each other, the general pain of their every-day lives torn apart due to some incredible mind-blowing sex – _oh_ – she'd never tell him that. She'd never live it down. Amazing sex with Sherlock Holmes! Sounded like a newspaper title. But she'd not worn a deerstalker; at least she hoped she hadn't. _Maybe he'd worn it?_ No, he'd been Zorro. _Fuckity fuck. _

Cloaked in tight black clothing, which was on the floor, shredded by the look of it.

Sherlock didn't look like he needed to hear he was good, as he had a lazy smug tilt on his lips, revealing nothing and everything at the same time. She could almost feel the patterns of his skin underneath her sweaty palms.

_Oh not good._

With narrowed eyes he said, "Tied up to a bed with my mouth_ taped_ over? Sounds rather tricky, don't you agree? Anyway, you were heading out the door five minutes later. Barely enough time for me to recover."

She spotted the curled up piece of duct tape on the floor, and her eyes widened at the sight, her previous strong stance faltering.

"I…I did that?" she asked in a tiny voice, almost from her throat, all feminine and frail. She'd not been that last night, the obvious gleam in his eyes told her that, and it was clear _he_ remembered, as he would.

"I didn't protest if that's what you're afraid of?" he said easily, as they shared a look, which made her clear her throat soundly, still trying to wrap her mind around it all.

"But – why did I leave you here?"

"You were afraid I'd meet myself," he said in such a tone that suggested she'd been fairly silly, though the look on his face suggested that she might have been fairly convincing.

"What?"

None of it made any sense. Why on earth would he tell her he was a married man? And why on earth would _they_ have at it in the first place?

"But you can't be Zorro!" she said protesting against the very idea, like he was just pulling the rug under her, tricking her for some peculiar reason.

"I wasn't trying to be…" he said with furrowed brows, releasing a long drawn sigh like she'd got him all wrong, like they'd never slept together and had instead been embroidered in wrangling horses, that's why they had bruises, that's why the middle of her thighs felt like - "…I was trying to be Robin Hood."

* * *

><p><strong>The night of St Bart's Costume Party Extravaganza <strong>

"In terms of goldfish…I would have thought your appearance would be mandatory-," said the slick voice of his brother on the other end of the line, tutting at his behaviour.

He barely restrained an eye roll.

"What about you? Readied your crown this evening?" he scoffed, unable to keep the smirk from his face as his brother was silenced - even if it was for just a few seconds - he knew Mycroft was disgruntled nonetheless.

"And you're not at all concerned your pathologist might get loose? She's not vapid like the rest of them Sherlock, and she certainly won't be kept on your hook any longer-," and his minor victory fell flat as he paced, his otherwise eventful evening with studying tobacco ash flaming up. "– Despite all of your _advice_, you've hardly followed it yourself little brother, and make no mistake – mummy will know."

"You wouldn't dare-," he spat.

"Oh wouldn't I? I did have to endure _another_ musical when we had agreed it was your turn. I am on her good side compared to you and a subtle name-drop would certainly pique her interest. You know how mother loves getting involved, she did enjoy it when -,"

"What do you get from this?" said Sherlock before he'd have to endure his brother reminding him of his turbulent affairs in his childhood. His mother giving Valentine's cards to all the girls in his class with him as the sender was certainly a nightmare to reflect upon, but which Mycroft relished retelling.

There was certainly no love life to reflect upon these days.

_No. _

He knew these fresher thoughts had cropped up from the brief cross-fire that he might have been in during Moriarty's reappearance, being a bit more passionate about his _friend's _disappearance than warranted, but then again, he would do the same for John (perhaps not demand to stay in the man's hospital room when he'd already recovered…).

"Well – _I _would get fewer questions and you would be relieved of your musical duties-,"

"Doubtful-,"

"Or you could stay at home pretending you don't care about Molly Hooper – continuing to do so until she _does_ get caught - hook, line and sinker."

Sherlock ended the conversation not wishing to suffer another condescending word. Already he'd had to suffer through John's diatribe about his presence being needed at the party, which sounded like downright begging in the end. He knew John's real reason for making any effort into goading him to attend, it was because his ex-flatmate was horrendous at 'up-scale events' such as these. John had always been considered the most sociable of the two, but the man would regularly use _him_ as an excuse to leave early.

"Why would I want to go?" he said to the emptiness of the flat, a glass of amber tilted up against his lips, his brow furrowed as he pondered why he should even be worried that Molly could be ensnared. There would not be a lingering hope anymore if she was relieved of his hook.

_Hook. _

He could be a pirate?

_Oh shut up! _

He was married to his work.

He'd told her…

_No. _

Who was really holding onto hope anyway?

"_You're a woman?" Sherlock heard Lestrade say with eyebrows raised into his hair, as the woman everyone in the room had referred to as 'Doctor Hooper' revealed herself, cheeks flushed from obvious pleasure and interest in his direction. With her assistance on the crime scene he'd solved the case in less than seven minutes, when he would otherwise regularly have to endure Anderson's interruptions. _

_And of course Lestrade's main focus was her sex. _

_It was a miracle the man had enough brainpower to open doors if he hadn't managed to distinguish the soft tones of her feminine voice despite the mask. He felt rather pleased by the general outcome, which __didn't happen often, but he was worried the second he instinctively felt like returning the smile she was giving him. She was giving him the 'ah' – look. Increase of redness in her cheeks, rapidness of blinking, she was even playfully sweeping her honey coloured hair from her face. _

_Problem. _

_He didn't need the look. _

"_Umm…yes?" she said snapping off her gloves. "Sorry about that. I'll try harder next time." She hadn't once asked why 'he' was there, never questioning his authority unlike the rest, as he didn't pose a question towards hers. "Anything else, then?" she added as Lestrade was still struck. _

_Unlike him Sherlock was considering letting one more person in. It was perhaps not beneficial that she was a woman, but he'd just inform her about his own situation. She seemed to be of an understanding nature, valuing perhaps her work more than other things, as she was still single – no wedding ring – at her age, nor in a hurry to avoid his eyes – not feeling inferior. He did need a pair of extra eyes he could trust, and she might even be coaxed to give him literal ones. _

At first he convinced himself it was beneficial she had feelings, so their working relationship would be amiable enough. Yet, there were no other women in his life who he treated in the same manner.

Everyone else had been told up-front that he wasn't interested when he found them considering him in any fashion, though he had been wrong about Sally's interest at their first meeting, which was most likely the cause to why she wasn't _very _happy about him being around her ("Because I'm a woman I fancy you?" she said gaping. "Oh my God, you freak!"). And he knew another reason she wasn't particularly fond of him now either – "You could tell her, tell her you're married to your work. Would be nicer, you know?"

It helped that Mary pointed out these facts to him; her laughter quite grating when he'd accidentally revealed his ignorance.

He'd told Donovan, but Molly…

Instead she'd somehow become the woman who counted, the woman who mattered, and the woman who without he wouldn't have managed any of it, and with those words – _maybe_ leapt forward. Maybe he'd be that man, maybe something would happen one day.

Maybe wasn't such a terrible concept.

It didn't mean definitely, it meant possibly, and there was always maybe one day, perhaps? He'd heard her – _maybe it's just my type_ – and even then, even then he couldn't do it. Even then he couldn't sweep around and tell her it was impossible. Even then he couldn't sweep around and tell her he…

It wasn't possible.

He needed another drink.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Several drinks later <strong>_

A bell chimed in the distance – _retro – _apparently people still did that to their little shops, especially the surprisingly still open costume shop (that he'd Googled beforehand) if he ignored the man with a well-established waist who was on the verge of putting up a closed sign. The man was giving the well-recognized body language of turning him away (frowning, pondering his lip worryingly), except his small eyes bulged outwardly in recognition. "Aren't you that detective, Sherlock Holmes? The one who died?" he said startled.

Fame did have its advantages.

He immediately narrowed his eyes at the two glaring errors in the man's sentences, but he didn't have time to correct him, leaning his gloved hands on the glass counter that the man stood behind. There were masks, glittering baubles and other artefacts like fake noses on display in soft velvet casings, as if they were like the Holy Grail. "I need Robin Hood," he spat causing the bearded man – _separated – two kids- heavy debts – happy? How? Oh shop - reason for separation._ _How many glasses again? Ten. Ah. Good. Chatty. Everyone liked chatty. Chatty was better than sulking. _

"Are you okay?" the man said with sweat on his upper lip, side-burns contemplating. _Contemplating? Hmm?_

He'd blanked out.

He couldn't blank out.

"I need a hero," he rasped.

The man raised a brow. "…What type are you holding out for then? Strong or fast?" said the man with a little chuckle.

Sherlock frowned.

"Umm, right, you mean-," said the man gesturing to the rows and rows of packaged costumes hanging on the wall behind him, a scent of plastic and fabric in the air. "A costume?"

"Yes," said Sherlock rolling his eyes, almost considering another store he usually frequented, but the last time there he'd accidentally insulted the woman behind the counter. So the likelihood of getting a costume post-closing time on a busy night seemed highly unlikely, especially one this specific.

"Fresh from the fight?"

"_What?_ Robin Hood! I need Robin Hood. She likes Robin Hood. That's what she told me once – and I shan't," he paused, his mouth almost not working with him, or working too fast, he couldn't tell anymore "– disappoint-," he finished with a flourish, grin extending on his face like a prelude to him crashing onto the floor.

"Oh – well – we haven't-," said the man looking worried. "- Really – got any Robin's in anymore…well, there's Robin_ and_ Batman?"

Sherlock gave him a blank look.

"Umm right -," said the man eyeing him with considering look, eyes flicking up and down. "Okay, I've got Robin Hood – a bit – of a special kind of costume really - rather larger than life actually."

* * *

><p>The colouring was off. Widely off. <em>Wasn't it?<em> He wasn't particularly familiar with the lore of Robin Hood, but he could ascertain that the man did not wear black. Or well he _did_ grasp that when someone shouted '_Zorro' _at him upon walking into the club drowning in fluorescent lights and medical students, besides senior doctors all in embarrassing costumes (coconut shells pounding to his left, gorilla costume passing him quietly with a pair of glasses jammed on the head to his right).

He quickly snapped his mobile phone up to Google the figure. Embarrassing if he'd been saddled with a villain costume despite his request, or did she enjoy that? Perhaps Zorro and Robin Hood were similar? "_A noble born man defending his people from the tyranny of the government?" – _the search said.

_Close enough._

The concept could not be lost on her surely. He had tried. Him in a costume should be enough, though he hadn't needed the mask, he was quite glad it was in place. _No particular reason._

"_You're not afraid are you brother mine?"_

It was not the time for him to hear his older brother in his head, especially when he saw the pink frilly contraption Molly was sporting in the distance, which had a corset that pushed up her bosom, glitter generously spread upon her cleavage.

"_Maybe a drink would be in order?"_

No, he didn't need a drink.

Then he saw Molly thudding a large white cane with a pink bow onto the floor giggling foolishly, her cheeks alarmingly flushed, while she spoke to a man with a – _god forbid_ – deerstalker on his head.

Maybe a drink was in order.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Two more drinks later<strong>_

He was everywhere. It felt like a Freudian slip observing '_himself'_ wander about with a horrid black lump of what was supposedly curls, the original scalp showing underneath, and the coat not even good enough quality. No one looked _cool_ with their collars turned up either (not that he believed _he _looked cool) and he frankly would not stand another second of the abuse of his character.

He was _ordinary._

He was the most common costume in the room, though no one had been accurate in their mimicking him. Had this been going on for a while? Had he just failed to notice people's obsession with dressing like him? He had a good sense of style – _but_ – why was he even here again? The unoriginal concept after all, even Molly was flirting with a poor copy of him, blonde wavy hair peeping underneath the deerstalker – _doctor – single – late-twenties – tall – not her type – _

"Bloody hell you'd think they'd try a bit harder - come on, the deerstalker is everywhere-," he recognised the voice of the detective inspector who wandered past in an American police uniform with short sleeves, pilot sunglasses unnecessarily perched on the bridge of his nose. Sherlock's eyes almost watered at the sight wandering besides the man, the _vision _in a white sailor uniform – John – looking particularly glum and uncomfortable, clutching at a beer like a life line.

"Looks like Molly's fallen for it though – you'd hope she wouldn't do it twice-," said John with a shrug.

_What? Oh. _He'd rather not remember the fiasco, which successfully dissembled without his interference. "Poor girl, you know if it hadn't been for Sherlock I would have asked her out-," continued Lestrade.

He snorted to himself, glad to see that the men couldn't hear him due to the pounding music (some particularly atrocious song was blasting off, a woman singing with a throaty voice).

"Seems like even when he's not here he's still cockblocking-," said John with a laugh.

"Come off it – she looks like she's having a rubbish time – I've seen her make that face when Phillip's about, so, I know that look. I think what she needs-," '_is a hero' – Oh – the song? Ah! _

He knew how to stay hidden when he wanted, but he also knew when to reappear. There was maybe a benefit from not being Sherlock Holmes in her presence after all, as that surrounded heranyway. Finding his feet he strode towards her, quietly pleased at the way his cloak followed him dramatically, though he knew that consulting work did not allow for cloaks. From some feet away she looked edible. It was all the pink and the layers - - _no_, _she wasn't edible_. Well she was edible, but that was cannibalism. He wasn't a cannibal. How would she taste? _Pink._ His doppelganger had wandered off, leaving her approachable, and he hastened to ready his voice, keeping the accent in mind – '_yesh, ghood'._

_Terrible._ "I am afraid I am only a black sheep."

_What WAS he saying?_

_It was stupid._

_Oh, she giggled. _

_Obviously good. Fantastic. Why did he need her to giggle again? _

"Hello Zorrro-," she said, smiling brightly up at him rolling her r's.

"Bo peep? That is your name madam?" he said bowing before her, taking hold of her hand to give the glittery smooth skin a swift kiss. Smirking he gave her a lingering look, her hand still in his. "I am delighted to meet you," he breathed across her skin.

* * *

><p>"And then we had lots of sex," he said effortlessly from the bed, casual and cool considering the range of topics he'd revealed.<p>

She remembered.

It hadn't exactly gone like _that_.

Molly had lost her cane after meeting him, especially since it kept getting nicked by some of the students who made that '_you shall not pass joke'_ constantly, though she hadn't been bothered much, brought onto the dance floor by the mysterious man in black. The man she'd been glad hadn't reminded her of Sherlock, how typical.

"We danced?" she said. "Oh my God, we did – you're – you're good-," she said amazed. It was always a relief to properly remember, the bits and bobs wobbling back into place - the taste of his lips in the hallway and the way they'd barely managed to get through the door before they'd collapsed on the floor, tugging up each other's clothes. He had the decency to get to his feet to slam the door shut in the end, and she had unmasked him, remembering her own shock. She blamed that last bottle of red they decided to share to throw her off the edge, as she recalled dropping off on her own bed without a care in the world, only a little niggle in the back of her head that she'd forgotten something.

It was more than a simple shag they'd shove underneath a rug apparently, and it was unnerving and exciting to say the least.

She stared at him for a few seconds, dodging his expressions, before she began to laugh, reminded of her own words (lots of sex), which she remembered caused him to be rather shell-shocked for some time. When her laughter finally stopped, she crossed her arms and tried to be calm as well. "But…you _did _say you were married-," she said narrowing her eyes a bit jokingly, wondering why on earth he'd decided that warning her had been a good idea, but then again he probably thought they'd wake up together.

Sherlock smirk faltered slightly. "I am." Her eye twitched in surprise. "_Marriage of minds?_ Isn't that what Shakespeare once said?" he added as if in afterthought, either pretending he wasn't aware of her mental leap or very aware, the latter was most likely.

"Oh-," she said with a laugh. "I thought you meant-," she'd almost looked down at her thankfully bare hands in shock, though she would have probably have noticed a ring earlier in that case.

"That's for another time I think – at least until you untie me-," he said amused by her bewilderment, while she couldn't help but giggle.

Thankfully he wasn't being entirely serious.

"Oh," she said climbing onto the bed; halting a bit as she let her eyes trail slowly across his naked body, meeting his gaze in the end. "I… barely remember any of it you know."

"I'll refresh your memory," he said, the smugness so evident in his voice she almost felt like smacking him, though that idea flew off as she slowly eased herself onto his rather cool body, straddling him.

"You're cold-," she said worryingly, hands resting on his chest. Molly begun to shrug off her clothes properly, surprisingly composed, despite it feeling unfamiliar, yet not. " – Body heat will probably work best," she said grinning as he groaned, her warm hands roaming about on his body.

"You will have to un-cuff me at some point," he said through gritted teeth, as she _accidentally_ pressed down against him, feeling his cock spring to attention under her.

"I rather like this actually," she said with a wicked smile. "Might keep you like this for a while."

"Molly," he said with a sudden sternness.

She leaned down to his face, inches away from his mouth, her lips tilting upwards, as his blue eyes were fixed on her mouth, before they flicked upwards. "Molly…I hope that maybe this will-," he was so obvious when she wanted to see him, and she only smiled capturing his lips instead for a brief but lingering kiss. He responded quite eagerly in return, his body tensing underneath hers, his lips hot against her mouth, as she heard the handcuffs slam against the bedframe. She really did need to let him - - - suddenly she pulled back from his lips, staring at him wide-eyed.

There was one huge problem, one massive detail they'd managed to overlook, which under the circumstances wasn't so very surprising, but still…"Molly, what is it?" he said looking startled.

Trying very hard not to laugh she said rather carefully, nervously smiling down at him – "Umm…I haven't got the key."

**THE END**


End file.
